Gemotions

The drumming. He'd been practicing, trying to get better. The knock was the first indication of a problem, followed by Mr. Olsen, his downstairs neighbor, at the door, his face a picture of simmering fury.

“The percussive assault!” he practically shouted. "It's shaking my china cabinet!" The drumsticks, which moments before had felt like extensions of his own arms, now seemed like weapons. His ears rang, not just from the drums, but from the sudden, sharp silence.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but nothing came out. He felt a strange tingling in his fingertips. The room spun slightly. He just stood there, absorbing the accusation, the joy of drumming completely obliterated.